


The New War

by Vaznetti



Category: Captain America (Movies), Game of Thrones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, GoT Season 6 AU, Loyalty, Oaths & Vows, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Steve misses his friends, Time Travel Goes Wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-22 12:33:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22516180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaznetti/pseuds/Vaznetti
Summary: As the adrenaline faded he watched her turn, watched her kneel to the dripping girl as they exchanged some kind of ritual words: a loyalty oath, he thought, and shit, Bucky and Sam would have got a kick out of this.  Except they wouldn't, because they wouldn't know, because he'd FUBARed himself to hell and gone.  Hell, or wherever the fuck this was.Steve gets lost, and gets found.
Relationships: Sansa Stark & Steve Rogers
Comments: 13
Kudos: 82
Collections: X-Ship - The Crossover Relationship Exchange 2019





	The New War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChronicBookworm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChronicBookworm/gifts).



1.

The deep snow crunched below Steve's boots, and the tall old trees rose up around him. He hadn't been in a forest like this in years, not since the old days, hunting Hydra with the Commandos. He ducked around some fallen branches, heavy with ice; there were no roads here, not that he could see, no signs of human life. It was the kind of place Hydra had liked to hide, back in the day. He felt for a moment that if he turned his head he would see Bucky walking at his shoulder, rifle on his back. But he had said his goodbyes to Bucky, promised to do better the next time around -- better for Bucky, better for Peggy, better for everyone. This time they'd be ready, not just for Hydra, but for everything else that was coming.

They would be, if he could find his way out of this forest and back to some kind of civilisation. This wasn't where he thought he'd end up when he took that last jump, back not forward, and he pushed away the thought that something had gone wrong, that time wouldn't let him do what he planned. One foot in front of the other: if he kept marching, he'd find his way out.

The forest wasn't completely silent. He could hear water moving, and beyond that dogs barking, and the sound of whatever they were hunting running through the snow. He turned toward the noise, and came out on the bank of the river just in time to see in the distance a couple downstream dragging each other out of the water and running, stumbling, further into the trees. On the other side, a moment later, men on horses and on foot followed the barking dogs. They were dressed all the same, carrying shields and bows and what looked like spears and swords. They hesitated a moment, and then plunged into the frozen river as well to follow their quarry.

Steve didn't hesitate. He pushed aside the cold shock fear their dress and weapons brought, and ignored the voice in his head reminding him he had no idea what he was getting into, or who these people were. He put his head down and ran through the snow. It was easy to follow the barking dogs and shouting men; they never saw him coming.

He threw his shield as he reached the edge of the clearing, knocking down the man in front, and took out another two as he ran to pick it up again. They did have swords and spears, no guns, and he saw the girl tripping over her long dress as a dog leaped up at her. Someone threw a spear at him, which he knocked aside, and drove his shield into another man's: it shattered and the man went down. They were well-trained and worked together, but they were no match for him. He took a blow to the back but spun around to kick the sword away before it could fall: it was a move Natasha had taught him, practicing hand-to-hand in the long years they were alone.

Someone else was fighting beside him now: not one of the couple he had come to rescue, but someone tall, silver armor and a sword flashing out of the corner of his eye. They were back to back until the last hunter fell and then the other man whirled around, raising his sword to face him just as he turned and raised his shield. They stood that way a heartbeat, then another: not a man, he realised, a woman as tall as him with a broad face and bright eyes. Steve took a step back and lowered his shield; she nodded, and lowered her sword as well.

As the adrenaline faded he watched her turn, watched her kneel to the dripping girl as they exchanged some kind of ritual words: a loyalty oath, he thought, and shit, Bucky and Sam would have got a kick out of this. Except they wouldn't, because they wouldn't know, because he'd FUBARed himself to hell and gone. Hell, or wherever the fuck this was.

The girl was looking at him, now. "I owe you thanks as well, ser," she said, "although I do not recognise your sigil. If there is any way..." She shivered, and her face became even paler as she began to crumple. They all stepped forward to catch her: Steve, the other fugitive, the knight and the young man with her. Squire, a part of Steve's mind supplied. Her squire. Had there been female knights in the middle ages? It had been a long time since Mrs. Fletcher's history classes back at George Washington. Whatever, she was lowering the girl to rest against a tree.

"Get those wet clothes off her," Steve snapped. "And you two, clear some ground and get some wood for a fire."

"We have to get away," the male fugitive said. "Ramsay will be coming, they'll see a fire."

"It won't do any good to run if your lady dies of the cold," Steve said. "You take care of the fire. I'll keep watch."

"I'll help you," the knight said. "You fought well, but the Boltons will be back, with more men this time."

"No." They all stared as the girl pushed herself to her feet. "Theon is right. We need to go now, before Ramsay realises that we've escaped."

"You'll freeze," Steve said.

"I won't." Her voice was stronger now. "Lady Brienne, let me borrow something of yours, and we will head for the wall. You will see, ser. We Starks are made for winter."

Starks, Steve thought. Of course it would be Starks.

The Stark girl was as good as her word, and in a moment came out from behind the tree dressed in something of the squire's -- Podrick, he had introduced himself as they waited, along with Brienne and Theon. Brienne had hesitated when he introduced himself, and asked if he was from the Stormlands, wherever that was. He'd shaken his head. "A little town called Brooklyn," he'd said, but the joke was lost on them.

It took Steve about two days to realise that none of the others knew where they were going. "There is a road north to the Wall," Theon explained. "But..."

"Ramsay will be looking for us there," Sansa said.

"Let him come," Steve said grimly. It was hard to keep secrets: he'd already seen what was left of Theon's hands before the boy left to make his own way home, and noticed that Sansa had to try hard to keep from flinching even when Brienne helped her up on the horse. Steve figured that moving more quickly -- and not starving to death while they got lost -- was worth the odds of being found. "Unless we need to avoid everyone around here?" he asked.

They all looked like they were considering the question more seriously than he'd meant it. "I don't know," Sansa finally said. "The Northern lords were loyal to me father, and to my brother Robb, but none of them came to help me. Only you two, and you're not even Northerners."

Brienne was watching Steve's reaction. "Where are you from, ser?" she asked. "I know of no house with the name Rogers."

So, Steve thought, he wasn't the only person who'd been paying attention. He was beignning to think, from some of the place names they'd dropped that he wasn't in Earth's past, either. "Ever hear of Midgard?" he asked. "It's one of the Nine Worlds?"

They looked blank. "Is that in Essos?" Sansa asked. 

"I've traveled a long way," Steve said, "and I'm a stranger here. I don't even know how to get home from here." They all looked ready to ask questions and make objections. Steve said, "I'm a stranger here. That's all."

Sansa sat with him at their camp that night, as he took the first watch. "It's kind of you to escort us to the Wall. I'm sure my brother will reward you; perhaps they will have maps in their library with your home on them. Brooklyn, in Midgard."

"Maybe," Steve said, just to keep from arguing. "I don't need a reward." What he really needed was a cup of coffee. Tony would have rigged a coffee machine already, and probably started a plantation to grow the beans. "Anyone would want to help."

"That's not true," Sansa said.

"No," Steve said. "But they should. There should be a better world." That's what he wanted, when he set out. He knew that he could change things: he remembered telling himself that Bucky was alive, but he didn't remember hearing it. So he could go back, find Bucky, help Peggy fight Hydra, make a better world for everyone. Even Howard, even Tony. Everyone. "We should be better."

"I used to believe that. I used to believe that knights were there to protect the weak. That they were better, not just stronger." Her voice was bitter.

"It's more important to be a good man than a strong one."

"That's easy for you to say -- you're a man, and a fighter. I'd rather be strong. Then no one could hurt me."

Steve glanced at her: their little fire lit her face unevenly, and turned her hair bright copper. "Stand up," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"Come on, stand up." He stood, and she followed. "Now, make a fist. No, like this." He showed her. "Hit me."

"What?" she asked again.

"Don't worry, you won't hurt me."

"Do ladies fight in your country?" she asked.

He smiled. "Some of them do. One of my closest friends had a great right hook." Sansa looked doubtful. "Come on, give it a try." She swatted his arm weakly. "You can do better than that."

She tried a few more times, with a little more force each time; he blocked the next one, and taught her that, as well. They practices a bit more, sparring in slow motion, as the fire flickered. It wasn't quite a dance, but more like that than sparring, until she stumbled against him. "You must think I'm so stupid."

"Why?"

"I'm not good at this," she said. She took a deep breath. "I'm no good at anything! I'm just a weak, stupid girl who makes weak, stupid mistakes!"

"Hey," Steve said, "You know that's not true." He could feel her hands shaking in his, and hear her trying not to cry. "You're not the first Stark I've met," he went on. "Back in my world, I knew a guy, a friend of mine. He could do anything he set his mind to." He settled them back down next to the fire, with her head on her shoulder so she could cry without him seeing if she wanted to. "I wouldn't bet against a Stark."

"What makes you think I'm anything like him."

"Oh," Steve said, "you're nothing like him. He was a real-- well. He was a terrible friend, except when he wasn't. But he never gave up, not when it mattered. And you, you're still looking for ways to fight. Tony lost his way sometimes, we all lose our way sometimes, but in the end he didn't give up. He was there when it counted."

"I don't know what to do," Sansa said. "Nothing I've done has have turned out right."

"Sometimes you just have to keep going," Steve said. "I'll get you to the Wall, to your brother. Maybe then you'll know what to do."

"Maybe," she said, and yawned.

"Go to sleep," Steve said. "If Brienne finds you awake when she takes her watch, she'll frown at me for the rest of the trip."

She stood, and leaned down to touch his shoulder. "Thank you."

"We'll train again tomorrow," Steve said. "See if you want to thank me then."

2\. 

The Wall, when he first saw it, finished off any doubts he'd had. This wasn't his world, and he was less and less sure it was even his universe. He covered the stab of pain he felt with a joke. "How tall are these wildings, anyway?"

"They say that Brandon Stark built it with the help of giants," Sansa said said. 

"But he didn't put his name on it." Sansa looked confused, and Brienne scowled at him, but he didn't bother explaining the joke. 

The castle itself seemed tiny, huddled against the great sheet of ice, dark in its shadow. He left Sansa to her brother, and Brienne to stalk off and find someone else to scowl at, and went for a walk around the yard, to see the place for himself: this, after all, was what passed for a fort around here. A lot of the men were in black, but not all of them: there were others, in fur and leather, and bad blood between the two groups. No wonder no one challenged him. He found the mess and settled in to watch them: the men sat in clumps, whispering among themselves, glaring at the others. There was a brief scuffle in the mess line, but one of the cooks came out from behind the pots, and the men settled down soon enough. Some things never changed, Steve thought.

Podrick sat down next to him with a bowl of something or other; it looked hot, at least. He fished out a bit of meat in his fingers, made a face, but kept chewing until it was done. "What were you smiling at? Usually you're as somber as my lady."

Steve shrugged. "I was just thinking that soldiers are the same everywhere."

"The Night Watch aren't soldiers," Podrick said. "Most of them are criminals whose only other choice was hanging. Thieves and rapers and murderers, mostly." He took another cautious bite, then looked at Steve. "You weren't thinking of staying here? Of taking the black?"

"Where else can I go? I can't get back to my own people."

"I saw you fight against those Bolton men," Podrick said. "You could go anywhere. But if you want to go home maybe you should go see the witch."

Steve couldn't help himself. "Glinda, right? The good witch?"

Podrick looked confused. "The red witch. Did you see Lady Brienne talking to her? She says she killed King Renly with magic, and the men here say she brought Lord Snow, that's Lady Sansa's brother, back from the dead. She can see the future, the men told me, and can kill you with her... Well, if you touch her, she can kill you. That's what the men said. They call her the Red Witch. If she can do all that, maybe she can send you back where you came from. She stays in one of the old towers." Steve was staring at him. "People tell you things, when you're only a squire. I heard it from one of the grooms."

"The Red Witch?" Steve said. It was... It wouldn't be Wanda. "I'll go find her."

"Do you want my bowl?" Pod asked, pushing it towards him. 

"You're on your own there," Steve said, and left him to it.

She wasn't Wanda, of course. He could see why they called her the Red Witch, with her hair, and her dress, and the huge red stone around her neck. It was good, really, that Wanda wasn't trapped here too. "You are the stranger," the other woman said, and brought him into her room.

"You know where I'm from?" Steve asked. "Can you get me home?"

"I only know that you are from beyond this world. I saw you fighting, in my flames, against a great army., and army of monsters. What were they?"

Steve could guess what she'd seen. "Annihilation," he said. "They wanted to destroy our world."

"But you defeated them," she said, not waiting for an answer. "We are fighting such a war here, against cold and death. Not the Wildings, whatever the Northerners think, and not the Boltons. All who live are on one side now. Will you fight with us?"

"We won," Steve agreed. "But at a cost." Tony and Natasha, he thought. And himself as well, in a way. He couldn't stay in that world without them.

"Surely any cost is worth paying, against such an enemy." She tilted her head. "Those you lost would agree, wouldn't they?"

Steve stepped backwards into the doorway. "You wouldn't send me back if you could, would you?"

"That is not a choice I will need to make," she said. "But you are right: to send you back to your own world is beyond my power. But even if I could, Steve Rogers, would you ask me to? Who is waiting for you? Who needs you there?" She looked at his face an nodded, satisfied. "This is the place that needs you now. This war."

There was nothing Steve could say to that, so he turned and left. It was what Tony had done, he thought suddenly, but Tony had somewhere to go instead. And in the end Tony had come back to them.

He couldn't avoid Melisandre as much as he would have liked: she was one of the people who surrounded Jon Snow, and so long as he stayed with Lady Sansa, so was he. She was there that horrible afternoon, when they read the letter from Bolton, and Steve made a private promise to himself that whatever else happened, that man would die. 

He preferred the company of Davos and Tormund; he sparred against Tormund once, and then drank with him until the Wilding passed out, which apparently qualified him for some kind of brotherhood. He sparred with Brienne as well, when she was willing. She shouted at him for holding back, but he kept breaking the practice swords she gave him. "Maybe an axe," Steve said. "I used a hammer once."

"I will see if there is a war hammer in the armoury here," she said. Then she looked up; Sansa was coming down from the room she'd taken. 

"I need to go to a place called Mole Town," she said. "Will you come with me?" Once they were out the gate, she added, "I need to meet someone, but I don't wan't to do it alone." At the place she wanted, she gestured for Steve to stay outside the building. He could still hear everything: Sansa's anger, Baelish's excuses, the news about her uncle regaining his castle. Baelish didn't even look at Steve as he walked out, a little smile on his face. It had been a trap of some kind; Natasha would probably have understood, and understood why later on Sansa only mentioned her uncle, and not Baelish's offer of his own troops.

Well, even Steve could understand that last thing; he didn't want to have anything to do with Baelish either, and he'd only seen him once. 

She sent for him that evening. "I am sending Brienne south," she said. "To my uncle, to ask if he will come help us."

She was sitting on her bed, sewing some mound of fur and heavy cloth. It looked like it would be warm. "Do you want me to go with her?"

"You may, if you want." She hesitated. "I know you are far from your home, and your own people. Nothing ties you to us, here. If you wanted to leave... We aren't doing anything here. All we do is talk, and Rickon is... I don't even know if he's still alive. I don't know if it's better for him to be dead, or in Ramsay's hands."

 _I still feel him,_ she had told Baelish. "You were Ramsay's captive, and so was Theon, and you survived. Rickon can too. You're strong, you Starks."

"Maybe," she said. "Theon barely knew who he was, when I came to Winterfell. Ramsay nearly destroyed him. He thought he had."

"That was his weakness," Steve said. "He likes to play with people, you said, so he needs them alive to play with. Rickon is still alive, and he'll come back to you. You brought Theon back to himself, didn't you?"

She shrugged. "But Rickon hardly knows me. He was six when I left Winterfell." She stabbed the needle into the fur. "I didn't know anything. And look at me now, just sitting and sewing. Useless."

"What are you making?"

"A cloak for Jon. As close to my father's as I could remember."

"I had a friend once who told me that clothing was another kind of weapon. She saved our lives once by giving me a hat to wear."

"A hat?" Sansa smiled.

"A dumb hat," Steve said. "But we were being followed by... by our enemies. And they saw the hat, not the man in it. You want them to see the cloak."

"Jon is a good man, a strong man, like our father," she said. "But the Northern lords don't know that. I don't know how many of them will follow him. And we don't have much time. I just worry-- You saw what he did to Theon, and now he has my brother." She stabbed the needle down again.

"I lost a friend once, like you lost Theon," Steve said. "He was taken, and I thought he was dead for years. And when he met again he didn't know me. He had suffered so much, and been forced to do things... Anyway, he came back to himself, and he turned on his captors. He helped take them down, in the end. Just like we're going to destroy Ramsay Bolton."

Her hands stilled. "You miss your friends," she said. "Perhaps you will find your way back to them."

Steve shrugged. "I don't know. And Tony is dead, and Nat -- she's the one who saved me with the hat -- she's gone too. I thought... I couldn't save them, but, if you could go back in time, and redo something, and try to get it better--"

"I would do it," Sansa said. "I wish I could go back and tell myself not to leave Winterfell!"

"That's what I was trying to do, in a way," Steve said. "But I came here instead. I lost my chance to go back and change things."

"I know it isn't what you wanted, but maybe you can change things here. You've already changed things for me."

"You can't know that," he said.

She smiled. "I can. I'm sure Brienne would never have taught me to do your press-ups. I still practice them, you know."

"Good," Steve said.

She reached over and lay her hand on top of his. "I can't offer you much. I can't offer you anything," she said. "Everything I have is sufferance. But if I ever hold Winterfell again, you will have a place there, I promise you."

"I'll see you that far," Steve said. "I don't know if it will change anything, in the end, but I'll get you back to Winterfell."

3.

By the time he had seen three or four of the Northern lords, Steve was starting to doubt that there was much point to ruling Winterfell: at they end all their work they had a bossy child and a band of wildings who spent as much time fighting each other as they did boasting about how they would defeat the Boltons. And Winterfell, when he saw it, was enormous; he should have known, when he thought of the Wall, that Winterfell would be huge as well. Even Tony might have been satisfied by it. He was pretty sure Tony would have wanted them to kick out Ramsay Bolton; he talked too much, but Tony didn't like bullies any more than Steve did.

 _You will die tomorrow,_ Sansa had promised Bolton. She had sounded certain at the time, but when Steve went to her tent after the evening's strategy meeting, he saw that her face was pale and tear-stained. She was dressed in her fur cloak, and ready to ride.

"I didn't know we were leaving," he said.

"We aren't," she said. "I need you to stay here."

"Does Snow know you're going?"

She shook her head. "Jon wouldn't listen to me. He's convinced he can win against Ramsay, despite the numbers, despite the fact that half our army is likely to turn and run at the first setback."

"He'll think that's what you're doing," Steve said.

"Not if you stay," she said. "I need you to stay, and to look out for him. He's rash, and he thinks that being right is enough to guarantee that he'll win--"

"I knew a guy like that once," Steve said.

She managed a smile. "But he's my brother. Keep him safe, until I get back."

"What about your other brother? Rickon?"

Her eyes were bleak. "It's taken us so long to get here, If Ramsay really did have him, I think he must be dead already. Otherwise Ramsay would have brought him out. He wants to hurt us; he wouldn't give up the chance."

Steve nodded. "You're going to Baelish?"

"He will help us, if I ask him." He must have shown his opinion on his face, because she went on in a rush, "I know, but what choice do we have? Jon will fight tomorrow, and without the knights he will lose."

"He won't lose," Steve said. "Not with you and me looking out for him. You go get the knights, and I'll hold the fort until you get back."

"If Ramsay wins--" she started.

He took her hands. "Ramsay dies tomorrow, Sansa. One way or another. You've said it, and I won't make a liar out of you. Tell Baelish to hurry, too. I've got a lot of experience with dumb plans that don't survive contact with the enemy, and I'm not looking forward to the morning."

He watched the soldiers line up in the morning, as much as Northerners ever did; Davos found him standing by Tormund, watching the Bolton soldiers come. They were more of them, and they looked more disciplined. Tormund spat. They didn't look to Steve's eye like they were ready to come charging into the trap Jon Snow had prepared for them, across the vast empty ground between the two armies. Someone had set up crossed frames of wood here and there between them, and set them ablaze; Steve didn't know what those were for, but had a bad feeling they were going to find out. They were all waiting for something, and soon enough Steve saw what: Ramsay came forward, dragging a lanky boy, and then sending him forward to run ragged over the empty ground between the two armies. He didn't need to look at Snow to know that this would be Rickon; there he was, bent forward on his horse's neck, urging it faster and faster.

"Keep the men here," he said to Tormund and Davos, and then he was running too, his shield up on his arm. Bolton was taking his time with the arrow, aiming and drawing, showing off for his army: it was too far to make the show, Steve thought. Clint might have, but this guy wasn't Clint. The first arrow missed, and Rickon swerved away from it. Good boy, Steve thought, but he knew the boy would be too afraid to think clearly. The next arrow came: another miss. Ramsay was waiting, Steve guessed, for Snow to get closer: he wanted to see them suffer. Sansa had been right.

Rickon was starting to flag: the next arrow hit him in the shoulder, and he stumbled before pulling himself back onto his feet and running again. It was easy to see what Ramsay had planned: Snow wouldn't reach him in time. Steve could see it, could see the angle the next arrow would need to take. He waited for Ramsay to draw, and threw the shield. 

The expression on Ramsay's face as the arrow fell uselessly to the ground made Steve bare his teeth in a grin. Then the shield was back in his hand and he used it to block the arrow that Ramsay shot at him. Every extra minute Rickon could run was worth it; it was just a shame he couldn't send the arrows back at Ramsay and the Bolton men. He threw the shield again, and the bow in Ramsay's hands shattered. It came back to his hand just as he ran between Rickon and the line of Bolton men. Ramsay was screaming, and the line of men raised their bows. _Shit_ , Steve thought, as Snow came to stand beside him, holding Rickon up between them. Ramsay had another bow in his hand, and was fitting the arrow, fury on his face. Didn't like his trick going wrong, Steve thought, but Ramsay's need to see them suffer was keeping them alive right now.

"Get Rickon back," Snow said, pushing the boy fully onto Steve, and then he ran forward, raising his sword and shouting.

There were shouts coming from behind him, too, and Steve could hear them starting to run. So much for the plan. He grabbed Rickon before the boy could follow his brother into the hail of arrows. "Let me go," Rickon snarled. "I'll kill him! Let me go so I can kill him!"

Ramsay's army were starting to march forward. "Not today, kid," Steve said, pulling Rickon back against the wall of rushing Northerners. Guess they were loyal to Snow after all, but now the Bolton horsemen were getting ready to rush them. "Fall back!" Steve shouted. "Back to the lines!"

It was too late, though: here were the horsemen. One of them charged directly at them, and Steve pushed Rickon behind him: he took the full weight of horse and knight on the shield and pushed back against them. The horse reared up and came crashing down onto the shield: Steve's arm shook but the horse staggered and fell, rolling and screaming, crushing its rider beneath it. But they were outnumbered, and Steve couldn't be everywhere at once: the horsemen and spearmen were herding the Northern army together. Snow was shouting orders, but Steve couldn't hear what they were.

The Bolton men were no match for him, but there were a lot of them. Steve shoved two back with his shield and pushed Rickon behind him; he tried to keep the boy to his left, and started moving against the rushing Wildings and Northerners. He kicked, pushed, was caught by a blow to the side. Rickon fumbled at his side and went down, and Steve pulled him back to his feet. Something flashed to his right side and he blocked the blow of a sword and sent it's bearer falling back. He didn't stop to see if the man was dead or not: all around him men were falling, grunting: he heard a horse scream in pain. He kept pushing back: Davos would be at the back of he line somewhere, he thought, and he could leave Rickon with him and then get back to SNow: he could see Longclaw rising and falling at the front of the battle, and then lost sight of him in the press of battle. Rickon was fighting beside Steve now, some dead soldier's sword held awkwardly in his hand. Every soldier Steve faced fell dead, and there was always another to take his place. They were being crowded from the front and the back now, something was wrong, but all Steve could see was the battle and all he could hear was metal on metal, marching feet, grunting men. Something was very wrong. He needed more space: his arms were trapped by the men around him, men he couldn't kill. He pulled Rickon close, pushing him up off the ground even as the boy struggled, gasping for air. 

Rickon screamed, and wriggled out of Steve's grasp, small enough to force his way through the press of men; Steve had to push his way through the crowd to follow him. Tormund was up ahead, struggling with Bolton man, a big guy. He couldn't tell who was getting the better of it until the dark-haired guy screamed and fell below the crowd. Tormund shouted in triumph and lifted someone up onto his shoulders: Rickon, waving his bloody sword around and shouting too. Steve struggled forward into the press. If he looked down, he'd see that he was walking on the bodies of the dead, so he kept his eye on Tormund and Rickon.

He heard the horns without knowing what he was hearing, and then saw the men around him as they heard them too, and then the men encircling them. Suddenly he could breathe again, suddenly he had room to fight his way forward: he could see the men on horseback, swords swinging, crashing into the Bolton men and driving them down, as the wildings and Northerners broke out of the circle. Sansa, he thought. She made it, she must be there, with the men she brought. He reached Tormund and pulled Rickon down, "I'm taking him back," he shouted, and Tormund nodded.

It was easier going now that they were leaving the battle, or it was leaving them, as the men surged forward toward Winterfell. He caught a glimpse of Snow, surging forward, his face black with blood.

Now there was space enough to see, and there she was, among the banners, her red hair blowing like a banner of its own. Baelish was next to her but Steve barely saw him. He was half-carrying, half-dragging Rickon until the boy saw her too. He pulled away and started to race forward on his own. 

Baelish grabbed uselessly for Sansa's reins as she set her horse galloping forward; she practically rolled out of the saddle just as Steve pushed Rickon into her arms. She clung to him and the boy slowly embraced her as well. "Are you my sister?" he asked. 

She was crying. "I am," she said. "I am, I'm Sansa. I can't believe you're here, you're still alive!" 

"He said he would kill you, like he killed Osha," Rickon said. "You have to run away, you have to hide!"

Sansa released Rickon enough to look him in the eyes. "Ramsay will never hurt you or me again. He will never hurt anyone again. He's already dead; he just doesn't know it."

"Are you sure?"

"I am certain." She pulled him close again, holding him tight, and then reached out a hand to Steve. "You saved him," she said. "You saved him, thank you." Her cheeks were wet.

"You're the one who saved us," Steve whispered to her. "You saved us all." He dropped her hand and knelt. He'd left the hammer they'd given him to fight with back when he ran to get Rickon, so he laid the shield at her feet. Its rim was bloody. "Lady Sansa," he began, "I offer you my services." 

She let Rickon go. "No, Steve," she said. "Don't kneel. I owe you a debt I can never repay." She took his hands, trying to pull him up, and then knelt opposite him.

"Let me do this," Steve said. "I vow to shield your back and keep your counsel, and to give my life for yours. I swear it, by the Old Gods and the New, by your gods and my own."

She gripped his hands so tightly that he knuckles were white, but her voice was clear. "And I swear that you will always have a place at my hearth, and meat and mead at my table, and I swear to ask no service of you that would bring you dishonour. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New, and by your gods as well. But you already had that, Steve. You had my friendship; you didn't need to do this."

"I wanted to," he said. "I wanted you to know that I would not leave you."

Her eyes were shining; but before she could say anything else, the knights were riding back among them; the castle had been taken. He helped her stand, and turned to lead her home.

end


End file.
